


We Regret to Inform

by wabbitseason



Category: Remember WENN
Genre: Gen, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-15
Updated: 2002-04-15
Packaged: 2019-01-03 22:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wabbitseason/pseuds/wabbitseason
Summary: A Post-WENN fic. The moment is VE Day, except no one at our favorite radio station feels like celebrating.





	We Regret to Inform

"Ronald Davies. Blair Foley. John Gregson. Arnold Harding. Samuel Medwick. Scott Sherwood. Anthony Singer. George Smith. Doug Thompson. Robert Wells... "

Mackie Bloom recited the long list in a quiet understated announcer's voice, completely removed from his "man of a thousand voices" persona. Older and careworn, the last four years had taken some of the bite out of the actor's flexible voice. Only a trained actor could hear the barest catch in his voice when Mackie mentioned the talented George Smith's death, a genuine loss to acting. A careful observer might hear the sadness at Doug Thompson's loss, his bomber destroyed in the Pacific. But even a casual listener heard a longer pause before Mackie uttered Scott's name, as if forcing himself to accept the fact.

Throughout the somber roll call, Eugenia Bremer Foley played a quiet arrangement of "Taps", barely audible under Mackie's voice. During the last bars of music, Mackie collected himself before returning to the microphone. "Recapping our major news, German forces have surrendered to General Dwight D. Eisenhower in the town of Rheims, France. President Truman has declared today, May 8th, V-E Day, Victory in Europe."

"This has been your Homefront Hour sponsored by... " Mackie looked up at the control room, noticing Victor Comstock motioning him to wrap things up quickly. He didn't even remember rattling off the sponsor information or the lead-in to Eugenia's music program. He was too tired. He was damn tired of it all.

@---------@

Victor sat in the control room, no emotion showing on his impassive face. The station manager had had to force himself to listen to the roll call to know when to cue for the next program. He was fine until he heard the familiar names mixed in with the other local boys. His name should have been amongst them. He shouldn't be sitting here safe and sound in a worn out radio station in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

There were times Victor Comstock wished he had died in London. His death might have been preferable to seeing firsthand in Berlin Nazi Germany's plan for world conquest. And for a short time, he had been brainwashed into believing their sick notions of "the perfect race". Victor wondered how his life might have changed if Rollie Pruitt had shot him, not the other way around.

"We have a special guest appearing on our show today," Eugenia said, returning Victor back to full attention, "returning to our WENN studios for a happy homecoming." Eugenia smiled, watching a familiar face taking her place behind the microphone.

For starters, Victor mused rationally, he might never have met his wife. Maple LaMarsh Comstock had returned from, hopefully, her last tour with her USO troupe. The newlyweds had had precious little time to spend with each other since their marriage. The radiant Maple had spent the better part of the war entertaining soldiers with the USO or recording V-Discs for the cause.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and all our soldiers," Standing in front of microphone, Maple began. "I would like to sing for you a song I recorded last year. Right now, the words seem appropriate for all the ones... coming home." Maple looked up into the control booth, her smile filled with love and warmth. Eugenia provided the soft familiar opening bars:

_"You'd be so nice to come home to,  
You'd be so nice by the fire..."_

Victor smiled. Although he knew this song extremely well, every time Maple performed it, Victor could feel Maple's love enveloping him. Seperated for long periods, this had become their song, each performance tinged with a certain softness and longing.

@---------@

"Coffee's ready, darling," Hilary Booth said, pouring two cups of coffee. Maple's song provided soft background music in the WENN Green Room. She turned towards the table where her husband sat absorbed in the Pittsburgh newspaper, his dark brow furrowed over some headline, ignoring the jubilant news on the front page. "Pumpkin?"

Jeffrey Singer glanced up from the newspaper, smiling slightly, "Sorry, Hilary, I was just reading the latest news. They're talking about sending me out again to cover the Pacific front from California." Hilary steeled herself, trying not to spill the coffee. She had grown used to Jeffrey's   
departures, going off to help cover the war from the homefront angle.

"I'm going to need the fresh cup before I go back on the air for the afternoon newshour." Jeff said thoughtfully, between sips. "Mackie sounded ragged. Has there been any word on his nephew?" He asked, referring to Mackie's young nephew called up last year, serving in the Navy somewhere in the Pacific.

Hilary shook her head, sitting down beside him, "No word at all." She added. "Eugenia is worried about Mr. Foley."

"Foley hasn't talked much about losing his brother, has he?" Jeff asked. "Not that one can really blame him. They weren't particularly close at the end." Hilary watched Jeffrey's eyes darken further, remembering her husband's own subdued reaction to his brother Anthony's death. Hilary knew the Singer family wasn't closest even before the war, but it was unlike Jeffrey to hold so much emotion back.

With a sudden start, Jef put down his coffee. "Damn this war!" Hilary reached over to hold his hand. "I just don't know how much more I can take, Hilary. I've interviewed countless American families who have lost someone. I've seen widows far younger than Betty. They all want to believe their loved ones will be coming home. They all want to believe."

@---------@

While most of Pittsburgh was lost in Maple's song, Betty Roberts Sherwood listened to the broadcast near the front desk, fidgeting in place. Dressed still in black, Betty occasionally glanced down at her clipboard, as if that would speed up the waiting.

Gertrude Reece sighed, head cocked towards the small radio on her desk. "Maple has come a long way, hasn't she?" She said. "I almost didn't recognize her when she walked in the door yesterday."

"Why does she have to sing this song?" Betty asked aloud, preferring not to comment on the new Maple. Betty had not quite forgiven Victor when he chose to marry Maple so soon after she accepted Scott's proposal. "Couldn't she find something less..."

"Romantic?" Gertie provided calmly. "It is one of Maple's most popular songs. I understand some G.I. requested her specific version for 'Command Performance'."

"She didn't originate it," Betty snapped.

"Neither did Dinah Shore," Gertie retorted. She suggested more gently. "Betty, why don't you go back to the writer's room? Or fix yourself a cup of tea in the Green Room?" She continued. "The show lasts another half hour. And I'm sure Victor and Lester have everything under control."

"No," Betty said, holding onto her clipboard more firmly. "I'll stay." She added. "I should wait... in case..." Betty glanced up towards the usual collection of photographs of the WENN staff, noticing the one of Scott Sherwood proudly in his Army uniform. She had argued against adding that photograph just yet. After all, they couldn't be sure.

"Betty, please," Gertie said, fighting frustration, "you have to get some rest. You've been under a terrible strain since you received word." She added. "For all of our sakes..."

"I should what?" Betty said irritably. "Play the grieving widow of WENN all over again?" She said. "Gertie, I have to stay. For all I know, he could walk right through that door this very instant..."

@---------@

The WENN front door swung precariously open. Immediately Gertie and Betty turned towards the entrance. Betty looked hopeful, still not accepting the facts. But instead of the one Betty hoped to see, she saw a thinner man in an Army enlisted uniform gingerly make his way through the door using two crutches. His hair was even shorter than he had worn it when he worked at   
WENN, if that was possible. And the boyish grin had faded. But it was undeniably...

"C.J.!" Gertie was the first to run towards the radio engineer. Betty clutched her clipboard even harder, her smile dampened. "Why didn't you tell us when you'd be coming home? We could have had someone pick you up at the station."

"It's okay, Gertie," Private C.J. McHugh shook his head, propping himself against his crutches. "They didn't give me much warning when they were going to ship me out from France." He grinned weakly. "Hi Betty."

"C.J.," Betty said, "we were so worried when we received your last letter, just before the..."

"The invasion," C.J. nodded. His division had been among the second wave to hit Normandy beach on D-Day. He had lost so many close friends and he had lost count of the unnamed ones. "Yeah, I wish I could have sent the station word sooner, but..." He turned towards Betty, obviously needing to say something. "Betty, I'm... I'm really sorry about Scott. He loved you so   
much. He... wanted so badly to come back home to you and WENN."

"You talked to him?" Betty asked, her expression again hopeful.

"Two days before the invasion," C.J. said, dashing her hopes. "Scott had just learned his division was going to be one of the first to land on the beach. He... didn't think he stood much chance of coming back alive. He had heard the casualty predictions... we all knew. But he had to tell someone." He added. "I'm sorry, Betty, I know you were hoping..."

The clipboard clattered to the floor. Betty started sobbing uncontrollably. Gertie held her, letting the widow let out all her pent-up emotion on her shoulder. After some time, Betty took several deep breaths.

"I guess I knew," Betty said weakly. "I just wanted to believe otherwise, even when I received the letter." No one needed to be told what "the letter" meant. Gertie had received one during the first World War announcing her husband's death. Fighting her own grief, Gertie had been there to comfort Betty after the letter came after D-Day.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to believe, Betty," C.J. said.

THE END


End file.
